


Nightgowns

by Evandar



Category: Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempted Seduction, During Canon, F/F, Misses Clause Challenge, Vampire Mating Habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: There are no nightgowns, underwired or otherwise, in the Borogravian military. Somehow, Ozzer manages to find the next best thing while facing off against Zlobenian cavalry and ends up kicking their captain in the fork while wearing a petticoat.It’s close enough. Possibly too close, because when Mal sees her dripping wet from the rain and plastered in sheer white cloth, her brain blanks out and – for a moment – her instinctspurr.





	Nightgowns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, radialarch! You had such amazing prompts and I just couldn't choose; in the end, I tried to work out something in between Mal plotting a full-on vampire seduction and her love of Polly's ability to take charge. I hope you enjoy it!

It began, she would think later, rather like one of the new ‘romances’ that were popular in Quirm. That is, they met in a bar and eye contact was made, and there was very little in the way of what would more typically be called romances. The girl – and she _was_ a girl, despite the spikey-shortness of her blonde hair and the complete lack of curves – had studied her leather tankard in a way that no one else had. She’d lifted it, and she’d taken something that resembled a sip to a casual observer, but was really more a case of gently allowing her upper lip in to get a bit wet in a way that wouldn’t offend anyone. She’d then put the tankard down. Carefully, so as not to upset, but very much with an intent not to touch it again.

‘A thinker,’ Mal thought to herself in that moment. Deep down, instinct stirred.

…

A fact about vampires: they have ways in which things are done.

Undead immortality can have a certain degree of boredom attached to it. Over time, this has given birth to traditions; better known, perhaps, as ways in which to break the monotony of existence while also, somehow, maintaining it. You drink blood and prey on the innocent; haunt castles high up on distant peaks, surrounded by deep forests filled with wolves; you make comments about “such sweet music” to lost travellers and you hope - _hope!_ \- that the traveller is a thinker. One who can spot the carefully concealed-in-plain-sight stakes and the items-easily-converted-into-religious-symbols handily left on the dresser of the guest bedroom. A century or two as a pile of dust is generally enough to make any angry mobs forget about you for a while, and, as a matter of fact, can be quite a restful state to be in.

Mal would know. She’s come across thinkers before: back in Uberwald, in the days when she’d still had long hair and had suffered the tradition of revealing necklines despite not having overly much to reveal.

A second fact about vampires: over time, their traditions have mutated into instinct. Instincts so strong that, like hanging upside down to sleep, or needing to drink blood, they can be very hard to ignore. And, generally, a vampire can only ignore one instinct at a time. 

…

Mal watches. Mal learns. Mal, as it turns out, likes what she finds out. Ozzer is a _thinker_. She is also, quite wonderfully, a _doer_. All it takes is a short sword fight and the sight of her head colliding with Strappi’s nose, making it burst in a stream of glorious – no – beautiful – no, Mal – deli – NO – blood. The Corporal makes an anguished noise and drops his sword in favour of covering his face. There’s tears welling in his eyes; blood dripping from his fingers, but Mal barely even notices.

Ozzer looks quite beautiful, standing in the mud with a mutinous expression and traces of Strappi’s blood in her hair. Mal finds herself grinning; her eyes glued to Ozzer’s slender form. The part of herself that still thinks about cold castles and transparent clothing notes that Ozzer stands a lot taller than a girl of her height should be able to; that Borogravia’s dull sunlight seems a lot brighter all of a sudden, and that the world around them seems less grim. She also finds herself wondering, in the way that vampires sometimes do, if _this_ thinker could be more than just a challenge and a stake through the heart. She finds herself thinking about nightgowns.

There are no nightgowns, underwired or otherwise, in the Borogravian military. Somehow, Ozzer manages to find the next best thing while facing off against Zlobenian cavalry and ends up kicking their captain in the fork while wearing a petticoat.

It’s close enough. Possibly too close, because when Mal sees her dripping wet from the rain and plastered in sheer white cloth, her brain blanks out and – for a moment – her instincts _purr_. And she knows. Even when she comes back to herself a split-second later, she knows.

“Their captain looks in a bad way,” she says conversationally. “What did he try to do to poor little you?”

And it should be noted that if something _was_ done, then Mal was going to make him look even worse. But Ozzer gripped his wooden bat and hefted it slightly; just enough that Mal’s overwrought instincts had her pulling back and creating distance.

“Patronise me,” Ozzer growls.

“Ah,” Mal replies. 

She’s in love.

…

“But Tonker’s – I mean, I thought she was following her lad – “

“The world’s opening up for you, isn’t it,” Mal replies.

The world’s opening up for her too, in strange and slightly awkward ways. She’s not actually been in love before and she’s not entirely sure what to do about it. Certainly, their lodgings – found in varying combinations of mud and trees – have done very little to provide inspiration. 

She’s learned more. She’s learned to like more.

Ozzer’s real name is Polly – a solid, decent name that very much belongs to the barmaid she used to be. It’s nothing like the name of a heroine or a love interest should be. It’s too… steady. Rather like Polly herself: there’s no room for elaborate swooping over vowels or hissed pronunciation. She’s not a Mina or an Amata or, thank the gods, a Lacrymosa. Mal’s met plenty of those in her time, and not a one has had the magnetic steadiness of Polly. Her Polly. Nearly-her-Polly.

Nearly-her-Polly, who’s a Jackrum in the making: a future sergeant whose tenacity could make gods quiver.

Polly glances at her, sidelong. It’s not a pleasant look. Polly has an amazing ability to wield looks the way that most thinkers wield stakes. It’s breath-taking in a way that makes Mal want to look down just to check that nothing’s actually been shoved between her ribs. She doesn’t. She just grins at Polly unrepentantly until the girl rolls her eyes and looks away, pretending with some aplomb that she’s not, in fact, blushing.

In the old days, it would have been easy, she thinks: a red-lipped smile and a low-cut gown. She would have knocked Polly’s socks off in more ways than one. But there are things that vampires do and things that vampires _do_ , and currently, Mal is dressed up and pretending to be male much like the majority of their comrades. And male vampires…

She reaches into that dark part of herself and _pulls_. Shadows stretch and gather around them, and somewhere in the distance, Mal thinks she hears a wolf howl. She pulls the gathering dusk around her like a cloak and puts her arms around Polly’s shoulders. She places her hand, one finger at a time, on Polly’s bicep. It feels odd. A little predatory in the wrong sort of way. Polly looks at her like she’s a Zlobenian cavalryman and Mal smiles wider even as she tilts the lower half of her body away just to be on the safe side. Just because she doesn’t have anything more than a pair of socks tucked down there doesn’t mean that a well-placed boot won’t hurt.

“What are you doing?” Polly asks. Her voice is flat and rather more sharp than it should have been. Rather like a blade, really.

It’s unfair how much Mal adores her.

“Ozzer,” she says. “Polly.” She slides her hand down to grasp Polly’s waist. She watches as her eyes narrow sharply, and the flush in her cheeks darkens. She leans in, inhaling the scents of sweat and frustration and exhaustion – not fear; Polly has never actually been afraid of her. Not once. Polly stops walking, and Mal takes advantage: she swoops round so that she’s directly in front of Polly instead, meeting her suspicious blue gaze, and raising a hand to cup her cheek.

“Polly,” she says. “Would you like the world to open up for you a little more?”

She’s fast enough to step back from the knee that rises unerringly to the occasion.

“Maybe not,” she concedes.

…

Everything’s a bit of a blur after that. There’s hunger and there’s _hunger_ ; there’s Polly and her bizarre, endearing lack of fear in the face of a starving, hallucinating vampire. There’s flying machines and numerical codes and the itching feeling on the back of her neck that comes from being hunted. She can smell something wild and familiar, but can’t put a name to it; she calls it Charlie instead because the grime-painted soldiers that melt out of the trees tell her that that’s what it is.

She’s gone cold bat before. She knows that nothing’s real. She just hopes with every fibre of her being that Ozzer – that Polly – will be able to shove a stake through her heart before she ever gets the chance to hurt her. She _trusts_.

…

Things are more of blur after that. It’s the vibrations caused by all the caffeine in her system. There are synapses sparking in her brain that probably shouldn’t, especially given the hungry looks that the things in the shadows are giving them*. But Polly is there. Polly is there and she’s angry: she’s fairly sure that they’re being court marshalled, which is distinctly unfair because she’s too high to threaten people sufficiently. But Polly’s anger is a maelstrom of scent and colour, and when Mal stands behind her – the most support she can successfully give – she relaxes just a fraction.

There’s trust there too. Despite the seduction-that-wasn’t, Polly trusts her at her back – something people generally don’t do. It’s enough to give her hope, in the end. Hope enough to sit next to Polly and Jade and tell them that it’s Maladicta, not Maladict.

“That’s nice,” is perhaps an underwhelming response, but Polly looks genuinely exhausted. Her adrenaline is wearing off a lot faster than Mal’s caffeine. It’ll probably sink in later, she thinks.

It does.

She looks down at Polly from her perch in the rafters. Polly looks back up her. There’s an expression of mild consternation on her face, and if Mal were to hazard a guess, it’s because she’s one of those people who can’t stand being part of a conversation when the other is upside down. She lets go, and lands quietly on her feet – she’s so close to Polly now that she can feel her breath against her cheek. It’s quite pleasant – especially given that there’s a slightly smaller chance of Polly trying to knee her in the socks.

“You offered to widen my world, _Maladicta_ ,” Polly says. It sounds almost like an accusation, but there is a very definite flush building in Polly’s cheeks. 

Mal offers her most charming smile in response. When it slides off Polly’s growing sergeant-ness like water off a duck, she allows it to soften into something more genuine. “I did,” she says. “I meant it too, if you’re thinking about accepting.”

The flush arrives in full force. Polly clears her throat. “Why?” she asks.

There are a million answers. There are ones that the girls in folk songs like to hear, and the ones that normal vampires give to their thralls right before they kill them; more importantly, Mal thinks, there’s the truth. She knows Polly well enough to know that she won’t accept anything but the truth. She also knows better than to bring underwired nightgowns into it – Polly doesn’t have enough to warrant underwire in the first place, and besides: a petticoat and a barman’s truncheon are more than adequate.

“Because you are quite delightfully dangerous, my dear,” she says.

Polly’s grin is more than a little bloodthirsty, but it meets her eyes. And, honestly, a dangerous glint in the eye is a good look on her. Mal leans closer, drawn in like a moth to an inferno. 

“May I?” she asks, her voice coming out as more of a purr. She watches Polly’s eyes darken in response; sees the hard edge to her smile soften.

“Yes,” Polly replies.

**Author's Note:**

> * The coffee was Klatchian. The people of Klatch typically suggest being very drunk before you drink it, because it has a tendency to take the mind too far in the other direction. In humans, this leads to the kind of madness typically associated with gibbering hermits or small communities of suspiciously fish-like people who have a bad habit of vanishing into the sea once they reach a certain age. Vampires, on the other hand, are used to shadows coming alive; usually, however, they're the ones causing it.


End file.
